


Meretricious: A Sherlockian Christmas Carol

by elldotsee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - The Great Game, Christmas, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, christmas 2018, christmas fics, johnlock christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: After an argument with John on Christmas Eve, Sherlock is visited by several messengers sent to help him come to his senses, hopefully before it's too late.





	Meretricious: A Sherlockian Christmas Carol

**Author's Note:**

> In an effort to get this published on Christmas (it still is here!), this has not been beta-ed or brit-picked. It has, however, been enthusiastically encouraged by the always wonderful ThornyPeach, 88thParallel and JBaillier. <3 <3 <3

Sherlock watched John from the window until he disappeared from sight. He scowled at his melancholy reflection, turning away with a heavy sigh. The next few hours were spent restlessly roaming the flat, trying (and failing) not to check outside every few minutes to see if John had changed his mind. He made tea and forgot about it. He picked up his violin, but played not a note.

Eventually, he flounced onto the couch, wrapping his coat more tightly around his middle and shoving icy hands between his thighs to warm them. The flat was cold, all but the one window still boarded up from the explosion the day before. A fire sounded enticing but the prospect of sitting in front of it alone (on Christmas Eve like some sad Scrooge), while John’s empty chair mocked him from across the rug, seemed despicable.

John was upset.

John was upset _with him._  

_Again._

And Sherlock knew he deserved every bit of John’s ire.

Sherlock has said the wrong thing, felt the wrong emotion, deduced too much and been not enough.

_Again._

It’s not like he didn’t try. It was just that the excitement of solving the mystery sometimes overshadowed any immediate concern over the victims. Of course he cared about them - he wouldn’t be trying to solve their case if he didn’t. But caring about them wouldn’t save them.

After several minutes of mostly one-sided shouting, John had stormed out. Though he hadn’t packed a bag, Sherlock didn’t expect to see him again until tomorrow. He’d either call up one of the seemingly endless rotation of women that cycled through their flat, or maybe he’d ask to crash on Lestrade’s couch.

This wasn’t the first time John had been upset with him, and Sherlock was certain it would not be the last, but with each argument, Sherlock knew the looming and imminent _end_ inched closer.

Each time, Sherlock braced for John to decide that he had had enough of body parts in the fridge, of Sherlock’s seemingly cold and uncaring personality, of being dragged through London all hours of the night, of being shot at and drugged and kidnapped.

Each time, Sherlock resigned himself to the aching emptiness, the utter purposelessness of his Before John life.

But John had always come back.

Each time, he would clamber up the stairs, then huff and puff around the flat for an hour or so. When he grew tired of that, he’d make Sherlock a cup of tea and they would carry on as though nothing had happened at all.

Sherlock knew he was being selfish. He knew John would be better off once he decided to turn tail and be done with Sherlock once and for all. But still he stayed, and Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to suggest otherwise. His whole life, Sherlock had prided himself on his ability to function best in isolation. Alone used to protect him, but ever since the introduction of John into his life, being alone was just… lonely.

He rolled over onto his back, exhaling deeply and letting his eyes slide closed, John’s words from earlier in the day, before Sherlock had disappointed him, echoed in his head.

 _Brilliant_.

John regularly called him brilliant and amazing and fantastic. Had done since the day they’d met. But it was only when Sherlock was solving the mysteries and saving the lives. All the other times, it was warning looks and social faux pas and _bit not good, Sherlock._

Sherlock _was_ brilliant, of that there was hardly a question, but it was all for show. What use was his brilliance if he could not save those who needed him? What use was his brilliance if he was _alone?_

His own words bounced back at him from the first night they’d met.

_That’s the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience._

His mind was like a well-oiled machine; constantly whirring, firing synapses, making connections and deductions. But all that came at a cost, for the rest of him was little more human than a common appliance. He did not feel emotions as others did.

For too long, he had felt _everything_ and felt it _strongly_ . Where someone else might feel disappointment, sadness, or anger, Sherlock felt _despondence, depression, rage._ It was as if every part of him had been dialed up to level thirteen and there was no way to turn it down. The only solution, he had discovered long ago, was to simply turn all feelings _off._

He pushed his head back against the couch, his mouth pulling down in the corners as he thought.

When he opened his eyes some time later, the flat was dark and even colder than before. Hunching his shoulders, he turned his head and gazed miserably around the sitting room. He felt disoriented and irritable. He wanted a cup of tea.

He stood up, shivering when a frigid blast of wind rattled the boards covering the window. With a loud bang, the door to the flat was flung open and Sherlock turned, certain he’d find an inebriated and apologetic John Watson. But the fond smile died on his lips when he took in the spectre hovering in the doorway.

He looked exactly as he had the last time Sherlock had seen him, right down to the red socks barely visible below his trousers. His plaid shirt was rumpled, his skin and hair pale. He lifted his hand in greeting, the same shy smile playing around his lips. Sherlock’s heart pounded in his ears. He scrubbed his hands briskly down his face, sure his eyes were playing tricks on him in the dark, but the figure remained.  

“Good evening, Sherlock.” His voice, public school accent still intact, held the same lilting quality as Sherlock remembered, though he hadn’t allowed himself to revisit those memories in years.  

“Victor.” He sounded strangled, breathless, and struggled to regain his composure. “How-- how did you get here? You cannot be real.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again, the sight before him hadn’t changed.

Victor shook his head, his smile broadening. “I am as real as you need me to be tonight. I was called upon to remind you of your Past. Come, there’s something I want to show you.”

He held out his hand. Though the shock of the situation vibrated through every cell of his being, at his very core burned a curiosity so intense, Sherlock had no choice but to grasp the hand offered and hold on for dear life as the room swirled and spun around them. Just as he was certain he would be ill from the dizziness, and opened his mouth to say so, their surroundings stilled and came into focus. 

Sherlock sucked in a breath as he eyed the red and green garland draped in corners and on tables, the twinkling fairy lights, the festive music and laughing adolescents. His gaze went knowingly to the corner, where a lanky boy with a mop of curly dark hair sat slouched in a chair, his nose buried in a book. 

He braced himself as another boy - the very copy of the one standing next to him now - approached the awkward bookworm in the corner. Though he couldn’t hear their conversation over the blaring Christmas carols, he remembered it vividly. 

Victor had asked him to dance.

With his heart pounding wildly, he had continued to stare at his book, certain that it must all be a trick. If he said yes, surely Victor would laugh and return to their classmates to make a mockery of the _freak_. Though Sherlock had never seen Victor with the others; he was often tucked under another tree in the courtyard with his own book in hand, he was sure Victor must have dozens of friends. He was polite, and kind, athletic and intelligent. Sherlock had yearned to get to know him better, but fear paralyzed him and years had passed without their friendship extending past a few brief interactions and on one memorable occasion, a shared laugh. Sherlock had replayed that moment over and over in his head, tucking it away for safekeeping in his memory like a precious jewel.  

If he turned down Victor’s request for a dance, he knew he’d never have another chance. This was their last year and they would soon be off to the real world. His eyes had drifted past his book and lingered on the red of Victor’s socks, just barely visible above his brogues, until they blurred. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as he warred internally. His heart was screaming yes, take a chance. But the heart should never rule the brain --

 _What if Victor was sincere?_ The thought had whispered in the back of his mind, gradually growing louder and more insistent the longer he sat and stared, unseeing, at the floor. After what felt like an eternity he had looked up, ready to take the plunge, only to be met with the back of Victor’s head, red hair bright against the swirl of their classmates’ as he wove back into the crowd.

From his vantage point in the middle of the room. Sherlock could see now what he hadn’t that day. A small package, wrapped in bright red paper (a subconscious decision, or a bold visual cue?) and tied with ribbon. A lump grew in his throat as he read the tag, barely legible beneath Victor’s clenched fist. _Sherlock._ Beneath his name, a tiny heart had been drawn. Sherlock’s breath caught, a thousand ‘what ifs’ floating through his head.

Victor slipped past them with his head sunk into his shoulders and through the doors of the hall into the December night. 

Next to him, the other Victor (what was he anyway? A ghost? A figment of his imagination? A hallucination caused by a glitch in his mind palace?) sighed deeply.

“I liked you. I wanted to be friends, and hoped for more. But you wouldn’t let me in.”

Sherlock didn’t have an answer for that. His heart felt heavy in his chest and he hung his head, unwilling to meet Victor’s eyes, even now.

“You would have regretted it. I wouldn’t have been good for you.” He swallowed, thinking of John.  “I’m not good for anyone.” Sherlock whispered, feeling suddenly exhausted.

He felt Victor’s hand slip into his once more and allowed himself to be tugged to the open window.

“Come on, I have one more thing to show you.”

Sherlock’s stomach lurched as his feet lifted from the floor. They flew through the sky, the streets below becoming gradually more urban and congested as they approached the beating heart of London. He smiled in spite of himself as the map stretched beneath them; each twisting street and monument as intimately familiar as though they were a part of him, his very veins and organs.

 _John would love this._ The thought slipped into his mind naturally and Sherlock allowed it to warm the edges of the cold, John-shaped hole in his heart. He missed him.

They came to land, gently, in a rather shabby neighborhood. Blocks of bedsits marched up and down either side of the street, grey and void of distinguishing features. This was not a place to call home, but a temporary transition. Nearby, a car alarm blared and rubbish littered the pavement.  

“Lovely part of town.” Sherlock muttered under his breath. He was cold and tired and feeling exposed, a combination that left him irritable.

Drifting through the mist like two spirits, Victor led the way to a nondescript door and through it without so much as a knock. 

The room was bare, save for a bed and a desk. Next to the bed, a lamp was switched on, casting a pale yellow glow. Sherlock started when he recognized the man seated on the bed. His hair was shorter, military- cut and he was much thinner than recently, thanks to many late nights of take out, but it was undoubtedly John.  He was slumped forward, his head in his hands.

After a few moments, he stood and limped to the desk, leaning heavily on his cane. He opened the single drawer and pulled out his laptop with a, but remained staring into its wooden depths. With an encouraging nod from Victor, Sherlock moved closer to the desk, his eyebrows raising when he glimpsed its contents. John’s (illegally issued) gun was nestled inside the otherwise empty drawer.

Victor spoke in a low voice, nodding toward where John was now focussed on a blank document on his laptop. 

“He’d been contemplating using it to end his life for a week. Made the decision on this day, but something changed his mind.”

Sherlock sat in mute shock. He’d known John was suffering from depression and post- traumatic stress disorder. He had deduced it within minutes of meeting him, had rattled the details off like mathematical facts, never once considering the impact of the words on the man he had come to know and love. But the evidence was here before him; John had been in serious trouble. He had come so close to ending it all, before Sherlock had even gotten the chance to meet him. 

With difficulty, he swallowed the lump in his throat. When he spoke, it was scarcely a whisper.

“When was this? What changed his mind?” 

“29th of January, 2010. The day he met you.”

\--------------------

“Sherlock. Wake up.” 

The female voice broke into Sherlock’s consciousness, pulling him abruptly to the surface, blinking and disoriented. He was back in his own bed but had little recollection of anything after asking Victor to take him away from John - that other John with the vacant eyes and the limp and the tremor, that joyless John that was definitely not _his_ John.  

“Oh, there you are. Up you go, now.”

Warm brown eyes came into view and he scrambled backwards on the bed, yanking the covers tightly around his shoulders.

“M-Molly!?! Why are you in my bedroom? Wh-where’s John?”

Molly Hooper gave him a quizzical look before reaching out and yanking the duvet away in one quick movement. Sherlock yelped.

“John is out, remember? Now come on, I have something to show you.”

She huffed, tapping her toe, but Sherlock just continued to stare at her wide-eyed. After a moment, he blinked and rubbed his eyes, then opened them again slowly. She was still there, watching him patiently.

“Real as I need to be tonight.” She shrugged and held out her hand. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock sniffed and flung himself out of bed, his mind whirring. But before he could latch on to any one of the thoughts, Molly had grasped him by the elbow and was pulling him toward his bedroom door.

He glanced over his shoulder at the window, glad they appeared to be taking a more sensible route this time. (But maybe a tiny bit disappointed.)

Even though his feet were bare, he couldn’t feel the cold of the floorboards as they walked through the flat into the sitting room. The windows were still boarded up, but the frigid, howling wind from earlier had died down. He turned toward the stairs, but Molly stopped him.

“No. Stay here. It’ll be just another moment.”

Nearly on cue, Sherlock heard the door to the flat bang open and two voices carry up the stairs. The tread of both were instantly familiar, yet unsettling. Sherlock glanced over at Molly with one eyebrow cocked.

“Today? You woke me up to show me what happened in my own flat mere hours ago? What are you, the Ghost of Redundancy?”

Molly didn’t answer, but kept her eyes focused on the door as the still-painful scene unfolded before their eyes. The newly arrived Sherlock, with arms folded and eyes rolling, went immediately to the couch and flounced onto it, his coat billowing around him like a cape. He pulled the lapels tightly up around his face until only his eyes peeked out.

John was hot on his heels, charging through the door, with his arms akimbo, punctuating each of his sarcastic-tipped words with sharp stabs at the air with his fist.

Standing next to Molly, Sherlock wanted to cover his eyes and ears as John shouted at him that he was _selfish_ , _barely human_ , _practically a machine._ He winced when John asked him- the other him- if he cared about the victims at all, or if this was all just a game to him. That’s when the quivering thread of Sherlock’s self control had snapped. He snarled back that _no, he didn’t care about anyone, because caring was_ _never_ _an advantage_ and flopped angrily down onto the couch, turning his back to John.

From across the room, Sherlock watched John’s face crumple, flicking through a million expressions before settling on one that Sherlock could neither describe nor understand. It looked apologetic, devastated… fond? That didn’t make sense. John was angry- had been very angry as he’d stormed out.

John’s left hand clenched and unclenched as he stared solemnly at the back of the other Sherlock’s head where he lay curled in a tight ball on the couch.

He licked his lips, taking a half-step toward the couch and opening his mouth as if to speak, but seemed to change his mind halfway there. Shaking his head, he turned on his heel and heaved a deep sigh.

Just as with Victor, John didn’t seem to notice as he passed the apparitions of Sherlock and Molly, muttering to himself. Sherlock leaned closer and caught the very end as John slipped out of the door, snapping it shut behind him with a click.

“God help me, I’m in love with a madman.”

Sherlock staggered backward as though he’d been struck.

 _Love? In love?_  

He mustn’t have heard correctly. Surely John didn’t say- couldn’t have said… Sherlock’s brain whirred, struggling to compute.

Molly turned a gentle smile toward him as he stood there blinking dumbly.

The Sherlock on the couch had jumped up now and moved to the window to watch as John strode down the pavement, lips still moving in what Sherlock had originally thought was a stream of curses, but was now wondering if it may have been more of the same earth-shattering revelations that had just fallen from his lips moments before.

Molly wrapped her fingers around his wrist, tugging him to the door.

“More to see. Let’s go.”  

But Sherlock stayed rooted in place. She turned to face him, her smile patient and understanding.

“Everyone, including John, thought that you knew. You’re a genius, after all. We’ve all seen it since the first day you met each other. You’re both shit at hiding it, and even more shit at acting on it. But one of you is going to have to be brave. I know you’re a man of science.” She squeezed his wrist affectionately as she said this. “So let me give you some more evidence to help you make your decision. A wise man once said that ‘once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth...’”

“However improbable.” Sherlock whispered.

“What’s that?”

“‘Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ That’s the whole of it.” His feet were moving now, uprooted from their spot on the floor and carrying him down the stairs. Molly followed and he could hear her soft chuckle.

“Yes. However improbable you might think it is, _people_ love you, Sherlock. John most of all.”

They burst through the door and into the cold December night. Sherlock raised a hand to hail a cab, but Molly stopped him, reaching up on her toes to kiss his chilled cheek. Looking like a film that had gotten stuck on rewind, Sherlock watched as the street before him sped past in reverse. Darkness gave way to light and then dark again, people and cars blurred into a stream of meaningless colours. Next to him, Molly giggled.

“I only have to touch you to make this work, but I’ve always wanted to do that.”

He rolled his eyes with a smile as the scene around them slowed and stopped.

“If all goes well tonight, I won’t get another chance. Don’t think John would stand for that.” She quipped, strolling away. Sherlock scoffed, hurrying after her in the direction of Bart’s.

She led the way into the morgue, where they came face to face with another familiar scene. John and Sherlock hunched over a lab bench, mere inches apart.

“Watch John’s face.” She whispered with a wink.

And Sherlock did. He watched himself as he talked animatedly, amused by the glazed look on his face as he deduced and explained and chased tangential threads down twisted mind-paths. And through it all, John was rapt. There was more though. Each time this Sherlock glanced away, distracted by another morsel of an idea, John allowed his face to slip into something softer, gentler, brimming with feeling from the curve of his lips to the sparkle in his eyes. Sherlock racked his brain for the right word to describe how John looked in those brief moments. When it came, it left him breathless.

 _Enamoured_. Besotted. Smitten. The list was endless but the sentiment the same.

John Watson _loved_ him.

With a snap of her fingers, the scene changed. Another day, another case, more and more glimpses of John as he painted his emotions across his face.

Sherlock had been so slow.

Sure, he’d caught that look on John’s face a few times, turning abruptly and catching John off guard before he could rearrange his features back into the safer territory of fascination. But he’d never understood it. He’d never known the depth and complexity of John’s deepest feelings. He hoped he hadn’t been too slow. What if he’d missed his chance, driven John away? What if that was the last straw and John came to his senses, decided that being in love with a madman was too risky? Now that Sherlock knew his long-buried feelings were requited, how could he possibly cope if that knowledge was suddenly revoked? He wasn’t sure he could.

His head swimming, he finally turned to Molly.

“I see. I’ve been blind, _too slow_ , but now. Now I understand. Take me home, please.”

Molly nodded in understanding and touched his arm. Heavy darkness settled over Sherlock like a warm blanket and he let himself sink down into it, closing his eyes.   

\--------------------

The next time Sherlock woke, the flat was dark and silent. His first thought was that it must have been a noise outside that had startled him awake, but as his eyes adjusted to the room, he noticed a figure in the corner, shrouded in shadow. It spoke not a word, but held up its hand and beckoned.

Sherlock rose from his bed as if in a trance, once again drawn by curiosity. He no longer feared what the visitor would show him, not after the pleasant discovery of John’s secret attention. Despite what Molly claimed about John’s affection tipping toward the romantic realm, Sherlock knew better. John had made his sexuality very clear, over and over.

But he decided rather forcefully that it would be enough to keep John as a dear friend, until the inevitable day when he met his future wife.

It would have to be enough. It was the best Sherlock could hope for.

Sherlock had reached the corner of the room, yet still could not see the figure’s face. He stretched out his own hand hesitantly. A sharp spark like an electrical current zipped through him as soon as his finger touched the stranger’s glove, and in an instant they were transported.

His bedroom had vanished and he now found himself staring at an open expanse of grass, shrouded in mist and dotted with uneven shapes. The phantom from his bedroom waited a few paces away, clearly wanting Sherlock to follow. On legs that suddenly felt like jelly, he followed. Nothing good could come of this visit, of that he was sure. His breath quickened when he saw where the figure had stopped.

It was a simple stone; sleek and black, rising out of the earth like a dark shadow. But it wasn’t the stone that made his knees quiver, but the name inscribed in stark white letters.

**Sherlock Holmes.**

Not another mark could be seen on the gravestone, not even the year.

Turning around, he sought out the dark figure who had led him to this place.

“Spectre! Explain yourself. Is this a joke? What message am I to take away from this visit? That I will die someday? Surely that’s not a revelation - despite what many think, I am human. So then, why? If this is all you were sent to do, then it’s done. Take me back home. I would like to sleep.” He popped the p on the end of his tirade, attempting to conceal the quiver in his voice with overly- enunciated speech. 

But the black shrouded figure moved not an inch, the shadow where its face should be directed over Sherlock’s shoulder at the grave.

He whirled around, intent to storm out and find a cab, but the crunching of gravel stopped him in his tracks. Unsure whether he could be seen or not, he ducked behind a tree to wait until the coast cleared.

The footsteps came closer and stopped directly behind Sherlock. Holding his breath, he pivoted slowly, leaning around the trunk. From this angle, he could see the side of the person where they stood with their shoulders hunched. It took him a moment to realize that he was staring at the third incarnation of his best friend. Of John; wonderful, brave, loyal, funny John Watson, who had his face covered with one hand as the other reached out to touch the edge of the stone. Sherlock ached from his head to his toe. This was wrong, wrong, _WRONG_! John shouldn’t be grieving him; he was standing right here.

He took a step, intending to shout John’s name and stop this, stop this whole farce. They could laugh it off as a practical joke and return to Baker Street together. He didn’t have to look so utterly devastated, so _broken._ It was unbearable.

Sherlock lurched forward but stopped when John’s broken voice rang through the eerie silence of the cemetery.        

“I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough to tell you how I felt when you were alive. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I love you. Christ, I _loved_ you. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to the past tense.” His voice broke then, right along with Sherlock’s heart.

After a few moments, he bent down and gave the blank slab a gentle caress and then with a perfunctory nod, pivoted on his heel and marched away the way he came.

The limp was back.

Heartbroken, Sherlock couldn’t help the lone tear that tracked down his cheek as he watched the love of his life limp away from him.

He rounded on the phantom.

“Take me back.” Sherlock begged. “I’ve learned my lesson, just please take me home.” He fell to his knees at the spectre’s feet, sick with guilt and grief. Had he been too slow? Was this it then? Surely this would all be over, just as before. It was just a lesson, just a trick. “Please.” He whispered. “I need to tell John before it’s too late.” 

The black shrouded figure said nothing, but reached out a hand. It trembled slightly as it stretched toward Sherlock and he held his breath, pinching shut his eyes. He didn’t know what to expect- would he be returned home? Whisked off to another scene from this dreadful future? Perhaps this was some sort of Grim Reaper and this was the end. He held his breath, his stomach turning in anticipation.

Like a gentle breeze, warmth fluttered across his torso, settling against him. Sherlock opened his eyes.

But instead of the black shrouded figure and the misty expanse of the graveyard, he was greeted with an angled view of his very own flat. He sat up quickly, the blanket draped over him pooling in his lap, and took in the room greedily. The boarded up windows, his violin and stand, his chair, the cold fireplace, John’s chair…

A noise in the kitchen sent him scrambling to his feet, the blanket slipping all the way to the floor. He bent to pick it up, dizzy with relief and giddiness. It was the afghan from John’s chair. He must have laid it over Sherlock at some point in the night—

Whirling around, Sherlock groped in the couch for his phone. The date, he must know the date. It can’t be too late, it mustn’t be.

_December 25._

“Oh, it’s Christmas! I’m not too late, why I’m just in time! It’s perfect! It’s brilliant! Oh… it’s wonderful!”

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice preceded him into the sitting room. He appeared in the doorway with two cups of tea and a puzzled look on his face.

“Everything okay?”

Sherlock spun and drank in the sight of John- whole and healthy and full of life, not broken and grieving.

“Yes!” he answered breathlessly. “Yes. Quite alright. John…” he paused, and for a moment he teetered on the edge of the precipice. For one wild split second, he thought about turning back, of keeping his secret for just a bit longer. But when he glanced up, John was no longer hiding. His expression was open, honest, raw and it pulled Sherlock right over the edge. He crossed the room in three great strides and took the cups from John’s hand, depositing them on the side table.

“Merry Christmas, John.”

Their lips met with such force that it pulled a grunt from John’s lips. But then- oh glorious day! Rejoice rejoice! - he was kissing Sherlock back with equal force. It was fierce and passionate and wonderful and Sherlock’s knees went weak at the idea that he could’ve missed this.

Breathless, John pulled back.

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I’ve been such an idiot. Merry Christmas, you madman. I love you. Always”

“And I, you.”

And they kissed until their tea went cold, and then made more, together. Sherlock’s heart sang. And it was a very merry Christmas, indeed.


End file.
